Pllzzzz ppl stop falling for Tha devil's lies r children were born perfect like we were don't matter. wut ever . u wuz created Perfect God made u Tha way and wut U R ,Escape Tha matrix's.... Wut u consider real world is Fake not Real ,False Like all Tha rest of lies they tell U, This is a mirage , nuttin but a dream, a fairlytale U been told. And for those of us that know Tha truth it's a nightmare unless u know how 2 control way u percieve things or other ppl in this realm or dimension u exist in!!111!!1!!11!!!1

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I heard that was the case, but that's just what I heard. Frankly I'm going to need some sources but that's ok if you don't have any. The bible? yeah I've read bits of it but I was just talking about proven fact. Riced Out Yugo is racist? I don't think so but you're entitled to your opinion. Yeha we've been to the moon there's plenty of... ok... yeah but the laser reflec- ok.. no I get what you're saying but..

And now, we go live to new Anchor Jim Bitterman, drunk as usual in his shack in the Adirondack Mountains.
Thanks, Connie, for the usual flattering introduction. I really appreciate you pointing that out, as always. Naturally, there's no reason for it. I'm just bitter. That's it, just me, nothing to do with circumstances. But don't worry, I've been reading "The Secret" and I'm imagining a better life. I've got a beautiful wife, an amazing boat, I'm smoking hash every day AND doing my dishes in the bathtub. We've got a special report tonight, and it's completely satirical, although it still might get me killed. We'll put aside for a moment what would happen after that *coughs* GNT *coughs*, but no one would hopefully be that stupid.
So anyways, like I was saying, I've got no reason at all to be bitter about anything, I'm just a sourpuss. But this story isn't really about me, even though for whatever godforsaken reason I've become a character in it. It was a heady time, 1998, and I was working for the clinton administration as a patsy. My job description was "" and "*"; so of course, I said "YOURE FUCKING A RIGHT, YEAH".
Let's get back to the story I'm making up. So...there's...there's people in the story, and mainly there's Bill and Villary Clinton and Moniker Lewansky, also...let's see, the Imperial Oriental Government that secretly own the corntree, and probably some dude from the midwest called Berry Randall, and Geoerge Burnsdale, and Billy Mitchell, and IDK, there's other people, too. Everyone is rtying to fuck everyone over because it's a giant episode of FUCK YOU, BUDDY, and no one understands loyalty or love or decency. Also, Shia LeBouf is in there, and TRIGA FILMS, and probably, like, the California Raisins and a giant talking orange. Let me be honest with you Connie, I'm in no state of mind for this. I've been drinking heavily and under the influence of some wserious psychotropics as well as government mind control brain parasites. So as usual, this is the news you'll hear first. I'm eating drop biscuits, apples, and pig anuses for breakfast because I'm colour-blind. Oh, how could I forget, the Grandmaster of Time and Space, Jayson Lund, and the TimeLords. or...no, that sounds right. And this guy Jake Dorkskull from King Kong, and King Kong, and I think, there were other people, but that's a story for another day.
It was the 60s and I was at a Jefferson Airplane concert, Grace Slick was backstage eating her usual post-concert buffet of dead whores "ONLY VEAL!" she screamed, as one of the roadies made the mistake of bringing in what she called "the mutton". "What did I tell you! I wanted FRESH MEAT. I'm a kitty-cat, mreow." She'd been up for a few days and a bundle of horses couldn't bring her down. I offered her some Vitamin C gummies, but she was like "FUCK YOU I FUCKING HATE VITAMINS YOU STUPID BITCH." "So Grace, how was the concert?" "FUCKING AMAZING, as always, I'm the fucking best, that's why I hide behind the curtain." The real Grace Slick was actually 50 and asian, or 40-something and irish, or a secretary aand belgian, or sometrhing. Maybe I don't know. What do I look like, a reporter? I'd heard from a roadie there was actually a factory that produced Grace Slicks from countries all over the globe, to keep the supply coming, as they tended to expire early.
I was basing all of my journalism on hearsay, as was the fashion in the time. Naturally, everyone seemed to know something, but no one really knew anything. For all I knew, the entire story was fabricated by people and designed to cause strife for their own political gains. "If you know so much about this, why don't you do something about it?" I said, to a giant chorus of "what, no; we want you to look like an ass". So it was time for me to step in and drop a whole shitload of unaimed drivel out because for some godforsaken reason that seemed more compelling or useful than I DONT KNOW GETTING A FUCKING NORMAL JOB OR SOMETHING, JIM.
To complicate things, a long-lost relative of unkown origin or relation, or maybe not, had shown up, but he was pretty great and I loved spending time with him (no homo) so something had to be done about that. Where were we...oh yes, I was further confusing things with unfocused free-association and stream-of-consciousness, and oh what a consciousness it had been. It was 2008 and Donald Duck had just been elected president on his "?Yes, everyone thinks I'm going to legalize it, but then people are going to be all 'OF COURSE THE BLACK GUY DOES IT', so I won't" platform. His hair was immaculate, as usual, and his name was Saddam Hussein.
After resurrecting Tricky Dick Nixon from the grave and Ron Raygun, who we had performing private sex ahows in the oval office, everything seemed rainbows and gumdrops for all time into the future. Little did we know there was a darkness lurking...a darkness that consisted mainly of a burnt-out 68-watt lightbulb that none of the maintenance people wanted to replace. "Get these dead presidents in the stables, I want a real Tijuana show!!" he yelled, whomever he was.
We were eating quumquats, quantum quumquats, and...fucking, ...I don't know, I'm not feeling very creative today connie, get off my fucking ass. Why am I even doing this? I just wanted to work a normal job like everyone else and then you all stuck me in the middle of your ridiculous fighting. I swear, if you kids don't stop fighting, I'm pulling this car over, I yelled to no one in particular.
Suddenly I realized I was alone in my shack in the Adirondacks, and not actually a news anchor. Snippets and bits from my brain-hole were oozing out as I slowly gained consciousness. I had to find a cork, so I opened another bottle of wine.
Unfortunately, I wasn't nearly high enough for anything to make sense, so I went back to my typewriter. CONNIE, GET ME SOME DECENT HERB, I typed, imagining I was tlaking to Connie Chung:wq

helium gardens find your petatarsles in harmonious balance with the rising of the squidlord in the 128th house of dodeccahed-drone with leading potential for strobing helixes of circumstance as you walk the dog for the second time of the day. there is a strong possibility that you or the people around you will play the new call of duty game, or talk about the new call of duty game, but beware the chi of the moment lest you fall victim for cussing at the new call of duty game as roommate is writing authentic horoscope kthx

somewhere in pierce nightinggale, the architecture expands to meet available capacity in the cathedral of the V2 visual cortex. what would you do at spaghjetti infrastrucutere macdonalds airport exterme scenario tweo? you ask the cashier, but information is nicht forthcoming. copies of richard milkhouse nixkon postage stamp afterimages of the third eye. nixkon, stock. nixkon, lumberjuck. nixkon, 70s freud. you need a hamburger to get these terribles images out of your mind, but you cannot form the words required to get one

Instinct is nature's answer to an immediate obligation. Attraction, although much like instinct, introduces a further freedom to the critter, beyond the simplicity of instinct. Maphabillity, i.e. the knowledged (human) existence, complicates the critter's life exponentially. How does one justify such complications and live without question? One simply doesn't. As far as the critter can attain, this unjustifiable complication is existence. And it's coo

When the pizza fits the puzzle they'll know. Tri-level aqueouses exist in this world but the 12th dimensional liquid can't swing that kind jazz, in any case it's of no consequence. Between the first and second sleeps nothing is real nor truly imagined. The world and the universe contained within have no will of their own, and therefore, will never be. The machinery is in place, created to unchangeable specifications, in such cases it will be or it won't be, but will always have been and for ever will be... est été. Chock it up to the lsd that makes water sparkle if you can't handle unequivocal truths, as there are none. It's all around you, in no particular order just as it is, right behind your eyes man. It sees you. You don't see it. It doesn't exist. You might but prolly not. So what does it all mean? I don't know, ask RTQP.

striggateboiga gonasty plastic bongo 'lectric with the tilly utter madness gonna hango upout and about with adam in the stuff by the stable with the horsies so pretty my tiltmouse so wotor gonna treppy the MIPS plastic whoa there pardner don't hjangoutside down up till the cows howl at the up sunup moon down light a little in the morn

stabbing the keyboard in RAPID. STABBING. MOTIONS. because werzner herdzog is suck a fucking zog why he gotta zo sog, dog? why he gotta dog? at least i got a charming low-res jpeg of a little blond girl hugging a little brown horse as a big white horse looks dead-on at the camera and and smiles. do you have that as the background of your yugo post, werzner? i thot not

"...Nature, as a reality, is a fallacy. The unencumbered soul lives outside this concoction; life is, to be sure, a series of lazers emanating from an infinite number of cubes. These cubes of perfect symmetry remain outside of time, perpetually delivering lazers into the essence of maphabillity, i.e. the human condition. Said lazers set maphabillity into motion by introducing a deliberate, controlled state of entropy..."

fouting montey is fleb keeber grot, so when you slay the krob, feen fop blim blam corrosive marmalade. then, you think you'll find that that thing that i sent ya that time (no, the other one) to be found. a found idea ingleeb! unlike, say, a small pod of milk substitute for ladies to keep in their purrses -- an idea which the author finds to be a terrible idea. on the other out of hand, a man who carries a house fridge to a work cubicle is likely to be the sort of chap likely to be duped into thinking such a purrchase would, indeed, likely be a good idea. it is not

We have to be able to get the same thing as a beaver's dam. beaver gravy beekeeper gravy in other words gravy gravy.
Mama's gravy Pappa's gravy gravy in the cupboards.
Gravy in fridge gravy in the oven.
Don't touch the gravy don't smell the gravy.
Hard gravy soft gravy don't mess with the beaver's gravy.
Grandma's gravy ain't no painted gravy; gravy gravy.
Gravy gravy gravy.

it was the eighteenth fortitude of chobbnekker (the wrecker) in a rising house of the pulmanory destroyer (lord tomato), tuesday. when it happened: vlitmliari ate himself in reverse and appeared at my feet -- uneaten! -- mad as a bog scorpion. vlitmliari demanded -- demanded -- that i not eat grapes in the store, i haven't paid for those grapes yet, that's shoplifting, he insisted.

"i'm not sure what you mean," i said, popping another grape (into my gaping maw), "i don't even like grapes."

so, trust a traveller -- don't hit up an acropolis rising in the house of lord tomato, cos even da grapes gibbe ye griefe